


I Don't Care If It's YOUR End Of The World (it won't be mine)

by gala_apples



Series: An Alphabet of Teen Wolf Crossovers [24]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Year of the Flood
Genre: Biological Warfare, Crossover, Dark, F/M, M/M, Pre-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boyd puts up with a lot of shit from the world. You have to when you're a Pleeb, when your parents are neglectful to the point of not noticing you joined a gang over a year ago, when environmental disasters are crumbling the earth to nothing. He's drawing his line at dying without his Pack by his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Care If It's YOUR End Of The World (it won't be mine)

**Author's Note:**

> Margaret Atwood's universe is dark, and basically everyone is a terrible person. All parents mentioned are useless or neglectful or criminal, up to and including Sheriff, who in this ‘verse works as a private contract cop for an extremely corrupt force. Prime example: the CorpSeCorps get kickbacks from a fast food chain called Secretburger to not close them down. The (not) secret being the burgers are made from any collected roadkill, including people.

A year ago if someone had told Boyd he’d be sitting at a table with this group of people and feeling happy about it he would have laughed right in that blathering lunatic’s face. Because _really_. Not only are they mixed race when nearly all Pleeb gangs are separated by skin colour, but Boyd is also sitting directly across from not one but two Compound jerks. It’s weird to have a Tex Mex beside him in the booth and an OrganInc fool across, and yet here he sits. Probably wouldn’t even have it another way if he had a choice.

There are two kinds of Compounders who come back to the pleeblands. The first fifteen years of his life Boyd’d only been aware of one type; pathetic assholes who don’t get enough rush from their perfect lives and need to stroll into the closest shithole for sex or drugs or whatever else HelthWyzer, OrganInc, LiveLoveLong, etcetera doesn’t provide. Then a beautiful man asked him if he wanted to be a werewolf and Boyd said yes because he thought it was a cult, or a gang, and how else was he supposed to find companionship with his sister dead and his parents the perfect consumers of any pills they could afford with their meager paychecks?

It’s kind of funny that Derek actually does turn out to be a werewolf. Boyd still joins, because again, lonely. 

The size of the pack fluctuates. It’s always him and Derek and Erica, moving from shit-hovel to shit-hovel on a daily basis so no authority has time to find them. Derek is hostile, but that’s nothing unusual. His meanness can be funny, sometimes, at least. One of the childhood plagues gave Erica epilepsy, but The Bite cured her. Could have killed her, but that’s the kind of risk you take when there’s no reason not to. Boyd gets it. 

More often than not, Isaac is around too. He lives with his father, a more useless piece of crap Boyd has not met. Isaac doesn’t scar anymore, but it’s not for Mr Lahey’s lack of effort. Derek’s makes a good escape, whenever Isaac can leave. 

Jackson is questionable. His presence and his entire being, both. He’s Derek’s beta, yeah. He also happens to be one of the previously mentioned compound dicks. He and his best friend came down to entertain themselves, like all those rich sadsacks do when the internet can’t provide enough gore and sex to get them hard anymore. And while Danny found a nice orgy to immerse himself in, Jackson ended up provoking a situation where he had to be bitten.

Scott is even more questionable. He wasn’t bit by Derek, but by Peter, Derek’s uncle. It’s been a year, but Scott’s still upset about it. Just because he didn’t want it, he’s somehow endlessly bitching. But he’s with Derek, because he can’t stand to be alone. 

With Scott comes Stiles. Stiles Stilinski should be just another compound ass, but it’s more complicated. As it turns out there’s a second reason for Compound civvies to come to the Pleeblands. Friendship. Boyd wants to find it ridiculous, but that would make him a hell of a hypocrite, considering. Still, he can rest comfortable knowing he’s better than the guy. He had the nerve to walk all the way into the dark. Stiles is too scared to let Derek bite him. Too scared to offer his veins, his fists, to let the grime of this Pleeb sink into his split knuckles before new skin grows over the wounds, trapping it all inside. Instead Stiles walks the walk, talks the talk, and then goes home and has a shower, positive that it’s fresh filtered water.

And that’s where the last, extremely questionable Pack member comes in. Scott and Stiles grew up together, best friends since daring each other to eat dropped and thus rapidly ant-covered soyfries. Then the local cop brotherhood folded, and Stiles’ dad had a choice of apply a bunch of random places and hope one hired and that it was enough to pay Stiles’ dead mom’s medical bills, or agree to CorpSeCorps recruitment. Option two was chosen, for safety’s sake, not because Sheriff is corrupt- at least if you believe Scott. Boyd’s never met Sheriff himself. What he does know is three things; he could stop Stiles’ close to nightly train rides to the Pleeblands but doesn’t, he could set his coworkers on his son’s gang but hasn’t, and he’d instructed them to avoid the HelthWyzer Hi-Potency VitalVite vitamins months before news got out that the producing company was dosing them with disease in order to make customers buy more in an effort to get healthier. Nine out of ten would declare that info not their problem, one out of the ten would sell it. And then there’s Sheriff, just giving away safety information, for free. Sheriff is the only CorpSeCorps man that Derek says he wouldn’t kill on sight. That’s practically a declaration of love. Certainly enough for Boyd to consider him a fringe Pack member.

Tonight they’re all together, barring Mr Stilinski. A pretty rare event. But so is someone getting out of the Painball arena relatively unscathed. It’s something that demands a celebration at Scalies. Every man needs a evening of tits and booze when he gets out of prison. 

Not that tonight will end any differently than any other night. Derek’s hardly going to take one of the sequin covered prostitutes home to their makeshift den. His night will end with wallowing in his loneliness. Isaac will go home to the same drunk asshole. Stiles has the same long sleep-depriving train ride. But Boyd can’t tell Derek to just fuck someone already, he can’t Isaac what to do, and he can only be grateful for Stiles’ presence since it’s his alcohol genetically modified in a Compound lab to affect werewolves. Boyd can’t change the night. What matters is that the evening’s going to be awesome.

“I know you’d be victorious,” Isaac says. 

Boyd meets Erica’s eyes over the table. They’re dating, he and her and Isaac, but she has a kink for blowing Compound kids minds, and Boyd doesn’t mind. It’s always funny to see what she can do. So she’s across the table, bimplants angled at Stiles, and in an hour she might be in his lap. By silent mutual decision they don’t call Isaac out on his lie. They’ve spent the last two months trying to reassure Isaac that the red team doesn’t stand a chance against the gold team. Boyd even believed it. Even if Derek wasn’t Alpha he’s the kind of ruthless that comes from having almost your entire family murdered. The red team might be tough from what they can see on the prison feeds, but they’re not Derek. 

Derek’s final scorecard is what has two CorpSeCorps men watching them. Nearly everyone who makes it out of Painball is a psychopath, hurting people at the drop of a hat until they get caught and tossed back into the system. Recidivism within twenty four hours is so high every ex-con is followed for a minimum of two days. Boyd has faith that Derek is different. He killed because he had to, because he had to last long enough to get out to lead his Pack. He’s not like Ritchie Pistol, a staple of the Painball arena, who happily slays his way through his opposing team -and sometimes his own- until it’s release day and a week later he’s back in, QuikKort not even trying to present a case.

“Let's do a drinking game.”

“What do you propose?” Erica asks of Jackson.

“Every time a patron is creepy, drink. Every time someone bursts into karaoke, drink. Every time the DJ offers two for one services, drink.” The way the blond man says it, he’s obviously been in Scalies enough to know the routine.

“We’ll die of liver failure,” Scott points out.

“So buy a new liver.”

“You’re a rich asshole, Jackson, but you’re not wrong. It’s time to celebrate Derek’s win.” Stiles clanks his genetically altered hooch onto the table.”I already bribed the manager to let us drink this. Might as well get my money’s worth.”

Boyd, for one, will honor Stiles’ expenditure. He grabs the bottle and takes the first of what will be a lot of slugs.

***

Boyd is immensely hung over. It’s not like he didn’t know he would be. Stiles’ special wolf liquor packs a hard fucking punch. Nights like last night he declares it worth it, and his pre-contract with himself is the only thing that gets him through the morning after.

Well, the contract and Isaac apparently making the decision to not go home. Boyd doesn’t actually remember this decision, but Isaac is in bed with him, splayed out like a corpse’s final fall, and Erica is snoring on the floor. Boyd can’t actually see her from his side of the bed, but he only knows one person who snores. Thankfully they’re werewolves with naturally heightened senses. Not something Boyd would normally be grateful for while hung over, but it does mean one feat of magic. 

“Erica. Stop snoring,” he hisses. And _she does_. Even asleep they can hear things.

When Isaac wakes significantly enough to roll into Boyd’s open arms Erica fits into the snug space left. It’s this combination of cuddling loved ones and feeling headachy and nauseated that has him staying in bed the whole day, and that’s why he doesn’t hear about the new virus until the next day. Not from a reliable source -the Wolf Isaiahists are sort of insane, and endlessly in conflict with the Lamb Isaiahists about who will win at the end of days and fuck is Boyd glad Derek found him before he joined either- but then again the news is saying the same thing. Terrible virus, no cure yet, hit all major cities at once, likely because it was engineered that way. Which means terrorism, which probably means God’s Gardeners. 

When Boyd was a kid God’s Gardeners were the harmless robed gang selling natural honey and mushrooms. Edible cooking mushrooms, not the good stuff. But lately they’ve started getting into the game of anger, protesting by the way of bombs and engineered crop failures. And their rhetoric has kicked up a notch too, all ‘we’ll survive the year of the flood -ie: apocalypse- because we know how to live off grubs’. Like literally. They’ll eat bugs but they won’t harm animals, not even to eat. 

Boyd believes in survival. He does. It’s just obvious that when it comes down to it, werewolves will win any survival contest. No caterpillars necessary. Problem being that not the whole Pack are werewolves.

Boyd waits one day to remind Derek of this. One day, and it’s clear they can’t afford to wait any longer. There’s not going to be a cure for this disease. It might have taken months to incubate before hitting Paris, Berlin, Toronto, New York, every important city at the same time. That timeline has nothing to do with the period between onset of symptoms and death. _That_ period is horrifically short. No doctor will have time to do tests, to figure out what’s going on, when the body obliterates itself in twenty minutes. 

“You need to give the rest of the Pack the bite.”

“What are you talking about? Who are you talking about? Did you get another boyfriend or girlfriend while I was locked up?”

Right. Boyd forgot how Derek doesn’t really approve of non-monogamy. Well too bad. Not only is that not the conversation they’re having right now, Boyd loves Erica and Isaac and doesn’t give a shit about Derek’s opinion. “The Stilinskis need to be ready when it breaches the OrganInc compound. If it hasn’t already.”

“It?”

Could Derek really be so ignorant? “Do you not listen to the news? The worst plague that’s ever existed is out there.”

“You don’t even know if it matters. What if there’s no difference for humans or werewolves?”

This is it. This is the moment that Boyd becomes the ruthless immoral Pleeb all Compounders think they all are. “So call Peter. Push him into a pile of once-human rotting flesh and see if he dies. Because I can tell you now, Stiles will do a lot more for the Pack than Peter ever would.”

Boyd doesn’t know what Derek does next. He leaves the squat for the evening, but it might not be to track down Peter. He comes back with both Stilinskis bitten, but it might not be because he knows it’s safer. He might just be the bad guy after all, the man who wants to be the strongest Alpha he can be for the end of days by way of as many in his Pack as he can. What are Derek’s motivations to Boyd, as long as it get him what he wants?

Sheriff’s in the corner, perplexed and wide-eyed with the changes of the last few days piled on his shoulders. Scott’s helping him with it. Good for him, the freakin’ do-gooder. Boyd will say his hellos once the man’s finished staring at his own electric blue eyes in the mirror. Meanwhile Derek stands with everyone else’s attention. “I couldn’t find Jackson.”

Stiles perks up at that. “Oh, that’s because of Danny. When I heard the rumours that’s how I knew shit was serious, like a true disaster. Apparently he drugged Lydia? Which everyone thought was weird, because he doesn’t even like girls, but not that crazy. But then later Danny and Jackson and Lydia were spotted carrying the limp bodies of the Mehlani family into a helicopter? Not the Martins. Not the Whittemores. So it’s obvious. Danny figured something out, he knew it was time to get gone, and he took the people that he cared who lived or died.”

“Offended you didn’t make the list?”

“I’ve got my own people I’d take on the world for and cute as he might be, Danny’s not one. Besides, I made your list, didn’t I? Fuck everyone else, right?”

Boyd agrees with Stiles. Boyd agrees, and he doesn’t care that he shouldn’t. He’s an immoral Pleeb stereotype and he doesn’t care because his Pack is safe, one way or another. And hey, everyone in the Compounds are dead, or doomed, so who’s left to judge?


End file.
